


The Heart's Wish

by who_la_hoop



Category: Ala ad-Din | Aladdin (Fairy Tale), Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/who_la_hoop/pseuds/who_la_hoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s only when he’s halfway through the window that Al realises the awful truth: someone hasn’t been telling <i>him</i> the truth. But it’s only when he finds the antique lamp his so-called uncle is after, and a gorgeous half-naked bloke appears in a puff of smoke, that Al realises he’s <i>really</i> in trouble. Shame that by then, it’s already far, far too late . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart's Wish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gryvon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryvon/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, Gryvon! I hope you enjoy this treat :)

When he was halfway through the window, the catch scoring a painful line in his thigh and ripping a line in his favourite jeans, Al simultaneously realised four things:

One – his uncle’s house was a whole lot less occupied than he’d been led to believe

Two – it was entirely possible that this wasn’t, in fact, his uncle’s house at all

Three – and if this wasn’t his uncle’s house, it was also entirely possible that his uncle wasn’t his uncle

And, finally, four – and the most important of all the realisations, Al concluded – was that he’d been a complete and utter moron to agree to do this at all.

Of course, by the time he’d finished thinking this thought, his uncle – no, Al mentally amended, his ‘uncle’ – had given him an ungentle shove, and Al had completed the transition from ‘outside the window’ to ‘inside the window’ and was now entirely fucked. If the police stopped by, so to speak, the excuse that he tripped on his shoelaces and fell into the house really wasn’t going to cut it, was it?

“Remember what I told you,” Al’s ‘uncle’ hissed from the other side of the window. “Find the lamp, there’s a good boy, and pass it over to me.” He sounded less jovial now and more . . . what was the word?

“Or you’ll regret it,” his ‘uncle’ added. “And so will your mother.”

. . . the word was ‘menacing’, Al concluded. Synonyms of which included threatening, intimidating, ominous and fucking frightening.

“What the hell do you mean, my mother?” Al squeaked. It wasn’t a very manly noise, but at that moment he didn’t feel especially manly – he felt like an idiot. A scared idiot.

‘Uncle’ laughed again. “Just get the lamp, boy, and you won’t have to find out. And in case you were thinking of leaving by the front door, I wouldn’t try – you’ll set off the alarm. I think the police would have something to say about that, don’t you?”

Al swallowed hard. The man’s words mirrored his internal thoughts far too closely for comfort. And what he was suggesting seemed the best way out of things, didn’t it? It was too late to flee, so he might as well try and find the sodding antique lamp, pass it to the con man – for con man he clearly was – and hope that no one ever, ever found out just what a gullible fool he’d been.

The whole thing had started off so plausibly. His mother had always known she’d been adopted – and she’d always known she had a brother. What she’d never been able to discover was what became of him. She’d tried her hardest – contacted the adoption agency, followed up all potential leads and even placed newspaper adverts – but with no luck. So it had seemed a miracle when Michael had arrived one day, with arms open, delighted to be reunited with his sister and ready and willing to be a part of the family.

Michael, with his elegant clothes and pretty manners, had soon won the whole family over, so when he had told Al – with blushes and apologies – that he had managed to lock himself out of his house, and could Al come and squeeze through an open window and find the antique lamp containing the spare key, which he could then use to open the front door from the inside, Al had agreed without a second thought.

As Al looked about the dark, dusty hall, and the side tables covered with dust sheets, and the chandeliers thick with cobwebs, he wondered how he’d been so stupid. If his Uncle Michael lived in this house, why had he never invited his long-lost family over to dinner? That should have been his first question. Along with: if you are so very wealthy as you seem, Uncle Michael, why can’t you simply hire a locksmith?

Al wasn’t even sure exactly where he was. Michael had driven them for at least an hour, and – it hit Al that this was another thing he should have questioned – Al had sat in the back seat of the car, and the tinted windows had made it all but impossible for him to see out. Windows tinted black on the inside. He really was an idiot.

Al tried not to sneeze as he crept along the corridor, squinting into the gloom, each footstep raising clouds of dust. He resolved to stick to the plan: grab the lamp, get out of there. “This thing better be worth its weight in gold,” he muttered to himself as he peered into a doorway – to see a huge, empty room. Empty, that was, apart from something dark and furry that skittered along the length of the wall, evidently startled by him. “This thing had better be made of gold,” he amended in a breath, tiptoeing along a bit further.

The problem, he thought as he got bolder – throwing open doors and ripping sheets off dusty, dirty furniture, each piece of which was probably worth more than the contents of his entire house – the problem was that all he knew about the item he’d been sent in to find (to steal) was that it was a small antique lamp. I.e. it was old, and presumably it was brassy, and held oil, rather than being something kitsch with a tassled shade and a bulb. In a whole house full of dirty old stuff, looking for something old and, in all probability dirty, was a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack. He had to find it, though. Who knew what ‘Uncle’ Michael might do to his mother if he didn’t? It would break her heart just to find out that he was a fake – anything else didn’t bear thinking about.

Al had almost given up hope when he came to the final room in the sprawling mansion and had still not managed to find anything resembling an antique lamp – he didn’t think that an anglepoise counted, nor a torch, nor a tall uplighter – and threw open the door. It was dark within – so dark that Al was glad of the torch he’d found, and he switched it on, pointing the shaky beam into the inky blackness. The room, he discovered, was enormous. Enormous, and empty. Apart, that was, from a wall with an obvious safe cemented into it. A safe which was open, the door swinging ajar.

Al swallowed hard and crept in closer, hoping against hope that whoever had been in the house before him had left a long time ago. The dust lay thick at his feet, so he presumed he would be OK, but there was something oppressive and awful about the atmosphere in the room. When he saw a small heap of broken, tarnished brass at the back of the safe, he almost reached in, before he realised that leaving prints would not be the wisest of ideas. So he pulled off his sweater, wrapped the sleeve around his hand, and reached in, to pull forth – and toss aside – a load of junk: an ancient candlestick. An old clock. A musical box that made an awful, broken tinkling noise when it hit the floor. And finally – he managed to stop himself before he tossed it aside – a small beaten-up piece of crap that looked like a miniature gravy boat with a lid.

He stared at it for a moment. It was the size of a novelty cigarette lighter, and when he tilted it to get a better look it dripped something oily that stunk. It couldn’t be . . . could it?

Al decided that there was no way in hell he’d found the priceless antique that Uncle ‘con man’ Michael was after, but it would be better all round if the shithead at least thought that Al had found it, so he shoved it in his pocket and pulled his sweater back on. Then, as an afterthought, he pushed the safe door shut with his elbow and turned to leave.

That, it turned out, was a mistake. As soon as the door clicked shut, a light began to blink in the top corner of the room – and before Al could even say the words ‘oh shit’ the burglar alarm, evidently wired to the safe door, began to make a noise a little louder than the world exploding.

Al ran to the front door, but it was locked tight and he didn’t have the key. So he sped to the window he’d got in at – the only one without bars – and it was half-in, half-out, ‘Uncle Michael’ nowhere in sight, that the police caught him.

***

It would have been fine being alone in the prison cell, Al reflected as he stared between the wall, the bunk bed and the toilet, which made up the fine furnishings of the room. Being alone was A-OK with him. Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone – he was with himself. And his brain wasn’t being too kind to him right now.

He still couldn’t quite believe how stupid he’d been. Not only had he fallen for a con man’s smooth patter, but he’d taken part in a burglary. And not only had he bungled that burglary, but ‘Michael’ had got away scot free – and was probably, even now, breaking his mother’s heart by telling her that her son was locked up. And who was to say that the bastard wouldn’t try anything worse?

Al had been offered his one phone call, of course, but he’d refused to use it. He’d got himself into this mess, and it was his job to get himself out of it. Preferably without his mother ever knowing, if at all possible. He’d even asked the duty solicitor about that, and the elderly gent had blinked, drily advised Al to confess to his mother as soon as possible, but told him that he didn’t have to. He was eighteen, and so technically an adult. Al didn’t like to dwell on the way the solicitor had pronounced the word ‘technically’ – as if no one as stupid as Al could possibly be considered an adult.

And the worst thing about it, Al thought, was that it was true. He’d never felt so much like a child before.

Al sighed and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out the piece of crap he’d stolen from the house. The police hadn’t even taken it off him – they obviously considered it so worthless that they couldn’t believe he’d have pinched it. And it was so small, and so pointless, that he couldn’t do himself, or them, any harm with it.

It was still greasy to touch, even though it was empty, and he rubbed his fingers over his jeans in disgust – but that didn’t help. He still felt oily. So he held the object between finger and thumb and scrubbed it over his jeans, hoping to get it clean so he could at least get a proper look at it. There were scratches on the surface that he thought might actually be markings of some sort, if he could clean it up enough to look properly.

When the thing started billowing smoke, he dropped it in alarm, hitting at his jeans with the vague thought that he must have set himself on fire. But his jeans were intact, and his fingers still cool and unburnt.

Al stared in abject horror, though, at the tiny thing, still billowing smoke as it rolled to the corner of the cell – but not, he noticed after a frozen moment, setting off the smoke alarm. This seemed infra dig. Hadn’t enough crap happened to him that evening, without being burned alive in a police cell? Had the Force never heard of sprinklers?

He opened his mouth to yell – but his vocal chords froze when the smoke began to solidify into a form that was at once familiar and very, very strange.

It was a man.

“Greetings,” the man said, through the haze of smoke, and then, to Al’s amazement, began to cough.

After a few minutes of the smoke-man doing his best to hack up a lung, Al decided that, supernatural being or not, he might as well get up off his bed and bang the man on his back. So he did – but the man seemed to take offence at that, although it could have been alarm rather than offence, and flailed, accidentally hitting Al hard in the eye.

When Al’s eye had stopped watering, the smoke had also cleared. But he still blinked, as he obviously couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing. After a while, though, he realised, gloomily, that the reason he couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing was that he’d clearly gone completely insane. Porridge – that was what prison provided for prisoners. A bible to read. Toilet paper, if you were lucky. Prison did not, however, provide very, very attractive half-naked young men, particularly very, very attractive half-naked young men who appeared in puffs of smoke. And, most especially, particularly not very, very attractive half-naked young men whose unmentionables were covered with billowy trousers, and whose feet were clad with pointy, stupid shoes with bells on the ends.

The young man’s arms, Al couldn’t help but notice, bore golden slave bangles, and his wrists were also circled with gold.

When he walked, Al thought, he would tinkle. Or jangle.

He pulled himself together, and tried to look at the hallucination’s face, rather than his toned, tanned chest. It was beautiful, with slightly pointed features, a full mouth, and . . . and very raised eyebrows.

“What are you looking at?” the hallucination said, in a rather irritated tone. “Never seen a genie before?” He crossed his arms and looked about the room. He wrinkled his nose. “Not a fan of the décor, I must say. Where on earth are we?”

Al did a little boggling.

“What?” the young man asked, a little testily. He recrossed his arms and shifted on the spot. He looked, Al thought, a bit uncomfortable. And cold. Goose bumps were springing up on his skin. Not that Al was looking.

“Er, would you like my hoodie?” Al asked, pulling it off. He wasn’t quite sure why he was offering a hallucination a sweater, but if he’d gone mad he might as well go with the flow, so to speak.

The young man eyed it dubiously and then pulled it on, struggling for a moment to get his head through the right hole. “What are you laughing at?” he asked, in wounded tones, when Al was unable to suppress his grin. He liked the hallucination; if he’d gone mad, at least he had some handsome company.

“Not sure it goes with your trousers,” Al spluttered. Indeed, the contrast between grey hoodie and billowing purple trousers, which were loose at the knee and tight at the ankle, was an amusing one. And Al had been right – the young man did tinkle when he moved, the bangles bashing together and the bells on his toes clonking with every step. Sort of like a dairy cow, Al thought, and tried not to laugh even more.

“This isn’t usually how this goes,” the young man muttered to himself. Then he drew himself up to his full height – he was tall, Al realised. Tall and willowy, despite the toned muscles. “I’m a little out of practice,” he added, tilting his nose up. “But you still shouldn’t laugh at me. I am a genie, after all! If you carry on this vein, I might refuse to grant you the requisite three wishes.”

Al blinked at that and decided that young man was taking the piss. Obviously, in the cloud of smoke, the guards had opened the door and shoved this clown in to share his cell. Maybe he’d been to a fancy dress party? That would explain the outfit. And maybe he’d had one or two many beers. That would explain – slightly – the attitude. “If they’re requisite, you have to give me the three wishes,” he said airily, deciding to play along. “So sod you.”

The young man’s jaw dropped. “Sod . . . you?” he repeated, rather faintly. “I’ve been trapped in that fucking lamp for hundreds of years, bored out of my skull, with only the dubious comfort of the satellite TV signal I managed to hack into, and my new master says sod you? Well, thank you very much, I don’t think!”

“Right,” Al said. “So you’re a genie. Prove it!”

The young man rolled his eyes. “I don’t need to prove it! You have three wishes. You could use one. Though, I do feel obliged to warn you that—”

“OK then,” Al interrupted, “if you’re so clever, I wish that instead of being in this cell, I was in my own bed at home.”

The young man snorted. “Since you’re obviously new at this, I’m going to give you five seconds to pick up the lamp before I carry out your wish, arsehole.”

Al didn’t move.

“Five . . . four . . . three . . .” said the young man. Then he paused. “You’re not moving. Why are you not moving?”

“Because I don’t believe you?” Al said.

The young man laughed, without any humour whatsoever. “You’re an idiot. But you’re the first idiot I’ve spoken to for far too long, so please will you pick up the fucking lamp? Please?”

It was the please that did it. Al had never had a boy who was quite as gorgeous as this one say ‘please’ to him before in such a pleading tone, with such a pleading look, despite the accompanying bad language. Even if it was a hallucination. So he sighed, stood up and went to fetch the lamp.

“Thank you,” the young man said smugly. “Don’t believe me!” he muttered to himself. “You soon will.” And before Al could reply, the young man had waved his hands about in a complicated manner, the room had turned sideways and strange, and before Al had decided that he was going to be very, very sick, he blinked – and the room shifted into his own bedroom.

“Fucking hell,” he said.

“I did tell you,” the young man said, this time really, really smugly. “You should have a little more faith.”

This didn’t strike Al as hugely fair. “Faith? In genies? There is no such thing!” He looked about himself. It certainly seemed to be his bedroom, but who was to say that this wasn’t just another bit of the hallucination? Maybe he was the victim of police brutality, and all this was the simple result of a beating to the head. That would make more sense than taking the situation at face value, that was for sure.

The young man sniffed. “There is such a thing as a genie,” he said. “Helloooooooo? Does your brain actually work? The lights seem to be on, but there’s no one home. You could wish for something else, but as I was trying to tell you before, you really do only get three wishes, so I wouldn’t use them up on rubbish, if I were you.”

Al sat down heavily on his bed; his legs were refusing to let him stand up any further.

The young man’s expression shifted from irritated to insulted. “Don’t I get a seat too? Or am I meant to bugger off back to the lamp?”

“Can I make you do that?” Al asked.

The young man winced. “I’d really rather you didn’t,” he said in a small voice. “But I will if you insist. You are technically – technically! – my master, you know.”

“Technically?” Al repeated, caught between fascination and dread. This wasn’t happening. This really wasn’t happening.

“Of course. You have the lamp – therefore you have me. For the space of three wishes, at least.” The young man tapped his foot, the bell on his shoe jangling. “I’m still standing up,” he said meaningfully.

Al smiled, despite himself, and patted the bed next to him. “What’s your name, by the way?” he asked. And then thought: I just asked a hallucination his name. A gorgeous hallucination, wearing purple trousers and my hoodie. I really AM insane.

The young man eyed the bed dubiously. “How clean are your sheets?” he asked. And then grinned – very wide and very sweet – at the expression of outrage that Al presumed had spread itself over his face, and sat himself down facing Al, legs crossed, hands folded primly in his lap. “We were in a police cell, weren’t we?” he said. “I hope you gave them false details.”

“Er, what?” Al said, finding it difficult to concentrate in the face of such improbable beauty. Whenever the young man blinked, Al couldn’t look away from his long, thick eyelashes and curiously green eyes. Like grass, Al thought. The young man shifted uneasily under his scrutiny and jingled, once again reminding Al of a cow.

“Stop staring at me like that!” the young man said piteously, fluttering his eyelashes in confusion. He gnawed at his lip.

“Er, sorry?” Al said. “You were saying?”

“About what?” the young man asked, evidently as thrown off course as Al himself.

Al thought hard. “Something about the police cell,” he said.

“Oh!” The young man’s eyes brightened. “Yes. I was going to say that I hope you gave the police false details, otherwise you are now technically on the run.”

It was Al’s turn to blink. “You what?”

“The expression is ‘I beg your pardon’,” the young man said reprovingly. “And don’t be dim. You escaped from your cell, therefore you’re on the run.”

“Poor excuse for a genie, you are!” Al said crossly. “Fancy not sorting that out. Though I’m still not convinced you’re a genie at all.”

The young man looked outraged. “Poor excuse for a master you are!” he snapped, sitting up very straight. “I just carry out wishes. It’s not my fault if your wish was imprecise! And how dare you question whether I’m a genie or not! If you don’t believe it now, I have no idea what will convince you.”

There was something in that, Al thought gloomily. Then a brainwave struck. He leaned over to his bedside table and picked up the TV remote, switching it over to the news channel.

“—strange disappearance from his police cell of Mr Al—” the newsreader said.

Al switched it off before she could go on.

He and the young man – the genie – sat there in silence for a bit.

“See!” the genie said smugly after a time. “See!”

Al glared at him. “Stop enjoying this!”

The genie considered these words. “I’m not sure I’m enjoying it, as such,” he said. Then he smiled. “Well, maybe a little.”

“I wish that the police forget they ever arrested me,” Al said, “and I wish for three more wishes.”

The genie muttered something that looked rude, by the shape of his lips, and a strange sparkly mist twinkled in the air for a moment. Then he sniffed. “You are no longer wanted by the police,” he said. “But you still only have one wish. I can’t grant more wishes – it’s one of the technicalities.”

“No?” Al asked, shifting back to lean against the headboard.

“No,” the genie said. Then he pouted, just a touch. “I would if I could, you understand. You are not nearly as unpleasant as some of my other masters – I mean, clients,” he amended. “I would be quite happy to stick around with you for a bit.” His forehead wrinkled and his shoulders sagged. “But there you go.”

There was something very, very affecting about a sad genie, Al decided. It was definitely the sad aspect that made Al want to hug him. Nothing to do with the fact that he was bloody gorgeous, and on Al’s bed, and if he just reached out . . .

The genie sighed, and his bells jingled. “I suppose I’d better go back to the lamp now. Unless you want to use your third wish right away?”

“Um, no,” Al said. “Not sure what I’d wish for, really.”

The genie brightened a little. “No?”

“And you don’t have to go back to the lamp,” Al said, feeling himself blush right up to his hairline. “If you don’t want to. The bed’s big enough for two.”

The genie blinked a bit, and then laughed, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. “I don’t sleep, silly,” he said.

“Oh,” Al said, feeling like an idiot all over again.

“But thank you.” The genie’s smile turned warm. “Just being out and able to stretch my legs is nice.”

Al frowned. “Stretch your legs?” He looked at the lamp, which he’d placed on his bedside table. There was no conceivable way in which the genie could fit in it, full-sized.

“Metaphorically,” the genie amended.

Al considered this. He thought it likely, on the whole, that within the lamp lay a hundred luxurious rooms, which updated with all mod cons as time went on. Not that that would make being trapped in there much more tolerable, his mind added. “I asked you what your name was,” he said.

The genie’s expression turned a bit anxious. “Um . . .” he said.

“Um?” Al repeated. “What does that mean?”

The genie’s anxious expression slid into something unhappier. “I can’t remember what my birth name was,” he mumbled. “I know I had one – I was human once – but it was such a long time ago . . .”

Al felt moved to reach over and pat the genie’s arm. “We could call you, uh, Gene,” he suggested.

The genie’s expression slid from the unhappy one into the more familiar supercilious one. “Gene?” he repeated. “As in genie?” A smile tugged at his cheeks though. “That’s really terrible.”

“I know,” Al said. Then added: “Gene.”

The genie – Gene – laughed, unwillingly. “It will do for now, I suppose. Gene. Better than nothing.” He slipped off the bed and stretched. Al tried not to notice the way the hoodie slid up to reveal a patch of toned stomach.

“You’d better go to sleep now,” Gene said, in a hectoring manner. “You’ve had a long day.”

“And what will you do while I’m sleeping?” Al asked, raising an eyebrow.

Gene smiled. “Watch you, master,” he said, and his eyes danced.

“Ha ha,” Al said, unable to stop himself from flushing. “No, really.”

Gene didn’t answer, just continued to smile.

***

The next morning, Al awoke with a start, after a night of odd dreams. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, or who he was. Then he remembered the evening before. Maybe his dreams hadn’t been so odd, after all, in comparison. He cracked open an eye and nearly yelled when the first thing he saw was the genie – Gene – staring at him.

“What are you DOING?” he whisper-yelled, aware that he really, really didn’t want his mother to investigate why he was making a racket so early in the morning.

“Watching you sleep, master,” Gene murmured. And then grinned. “Good morning.”

Al closed his eyes. When he opened them again, it still wasn’t a dream. Gene was there, still staring at him – albeit in a slightly more bemused fashion now.

“I’m going to have a shower,” Al said. “If my mother comes in, er . . .” He could hardly ask Gene to leap in the wardrobe, could he? Could he?

“She won’t be able to see me,” Gene said, as if that was a normal thing to say. “Don’t worry. Only you can.”

The thought that Gene really was a hallucination came back to hit Al like an express train between the eyes. But . . . “Shower,” he told himself firmly. “Then you can too, if you like. You can borrow some clothes.”

A smile flickered on Gene’s lips. “OK,” he agreed.

Al realised how unwise this offer had been only when it was too late – when Gene, naked apart from a small towel around his waist, slid back into the room some time later, trailing water. Water dripped down his chest; down his arms; down his cheeks. He was leaving wet footprints.

“My face is up here,” Gene said pointedly, after Al had watched a droplet slide down his chest, down and down . . .

Al leaped as if he’d been burned, and looked at the wall, rather than look at Gene. And then nearly leaped out of his skin when Gene came over and whispered, “Boo,” just behind his ear.

When he turned around, to tell him off, Gene was still wet. Still half naked. But now very, very close. Al swallowed, very hard.

Gene smiled. “Want to make a wish?” he murmured.

He did not just say that, Al told himself. He did not just say that!

“Um, no! Not yet!” he squeaked – he seemed to be doing that too much lately, he told himself sternly, and really should stop it.

If anything, Gene’s smile widened. “OK,” he said peaceably. “Turn around then while I put some clothes on.”

Al did just that, and tried very hard not to think about the naked, gorgeous boy in the same room as him, and the fact that if he just turned around he would see . . .

He gritted his teeth and stared at the wall.

“All done,” Gene called, and Al turned to see . . . chest. Mostly chest. Gene had, it seemed, decided against the T-shirt Al had laid out – and the underpants, Al’s brain added, seeing them still lying on the duvet – in favour of a pair of blue jeans and nothing else. His feet were bare. His chest was bare. His arms were bare – apart from the bangles, which he was slipping back on.

“I feel naked without them,” he said cheerfully, when he noticed Al staring. “So, what do you want to wish for?”

Al sat down his bed. “I . . . don’t know,” he said, thinking about it. He only had one wish left; how would it best be spent?

Gene sat down beside him. “Well, what are your choices? I can help. Just don’t say the word ‘wish’ until you’re really sure.”

“My mother really would like to meet her long-lost brother,” Al said.

Gene reached over and squeezed his thigh, very gently. “She already has, I’m afraid.”

Al looked over at him. “What?”

Gene looked embarrassed. “Your Uncle Michael really is your Uncle Michael. A con man, yes, but your blood relation. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Al said. He could feel Gene’s hand on his leg, hot and heavy. “How do you know?”

Gene smiled a little. “Magic, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” Sweetheart?

“What else would you wish for?”

Al considered that. “I don’t know,” he confessed.

Gene pulled his hand away. “The usual thing is money or . . . or . . .”

“Or?”

“Or a beautiful woman to be your wife,” he said, rather stiffly.

“Oh! Ah, I’m not really into women,” Al said. It felt a bit weird to say it out loud. He hadn’t had a boyfriend yet, after all – though he wanted one, he was certain of that.

Gene stiffened at his side. “No?”

“No,” Al agreed. “And I don’t like the idea of making someone love me by using magic. I don’t really believe in magic, you know, despite all this.”

Strangely, Gene relaxed at that, shuffling in a little bit closer. “You’re so strange, you are. What about the money, then. Don’t you want to be rich?”

Al considered that. “I already am fairly well off,” he said. “At least, my family is.”

“Well, there must be something you want,” Gene said. “You’ll just have to spend some time thinking about it.”

“Hmm,” Al said. “What would you wish for?”

“Oh, that’s not applicable in this situation,” Gene demurred.

“No, really.” Al turned to Gene, who was close – very close – and looked very unhappy all of a sudden. “I want to know.”

“I’d wish to be free.” Gene’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “But that’s beside the point. I don’t get a wish.”

Al felt his heart thrumming in his chest, a kind of fire lighting up his blood. “But _I_ do,” he said, very steadily.

“Don’t joke,” Gene said tightly. “It’s not funny.”

“Who said I was joking?”

Al plucked up his courage and reached over to take one of Gene’s hands in his own. It lay limp and unresisting for a moment, and then Gene said – in a heartbreakingly small voice – “You would . . . set me free? Really?” And looked over at Al with such a tentative, hopeful, _terrified_ expression that Al didn’t know what to do with himself, what to say.

So he didn’t say anything at all, at first. Just nodded, very firmly. Wet his lips. Looked Gene right in the eye. And said, “I wish that you were—”

The door to his bedroom slammed open, and suddenly all was mayhem. His mother was wailing, several burly policemen were on him, waving batons, yelling and trying to pull his hands behind his back and put him in handcuffs.

“What the—” he said, resisting . . . until he saw Uncle Michael. Then he went limp.

Uncle Michael winked at him, a horrible smile on his face, and then said to the senior policeman standing by his side, “Yes, I’m afraid that’s him, the little thief.” He shook his head sadly. “I’ve only known him a short time, but I’m shocked – very shocked – to think that my flesh and blood could rob a house and empty a safe!” He looked over at Al. “Three million pounds in cash, I hear, is gone! The owner, a personal friend of mine, is beside himself. How could you, Al?”

Al’s blood ran very cold. What was Michael playing at? Revenge, that was what – it was all too clear. Revenge for Al not fetching the lamp for him. Al’d been careful, btu he probably had left fingerprints. And footprints. Shit! What the hell was he going to do?

“Repeat after me,” Gene said, very quietly, from behind him.

Al nearly jumped ten feet in the air – at least, he would have if he didn’t have the knees of two hefty policeman on his back. He hadn’t even managed to set Gene free yet! What the fuck was wrong with him.

“Repeat it!” Gene said. “I wish that Uncle Michael had never found my mother.”

Al opened his mouth to do as asked, and then frowned. “Why would I wish that?”

The policemen had stopped kneeling on him and were now wrestling him in handcuffs. “What was that, lad?” one of them asked, not unkindly.

Oh yes, Al thought, remembering – only he could see Gene. For a moment he wavered. It was tempting to fix this mess by wishing it all away. But he only had one wish left! And he’d already promised it to Gene – at least, he hadn’t promised Gene, but he’d promised _himself_ he’d use it that way.

He turned his head so that he could see the genie. Gene was clenching his hands into fists, his jaw very set and his eyes very hard. “Well, go on then!” Gene all but yelled. “Don’t be an idiot – get on with it!”

Al sighed a little, on the inside. Then he said, very quietly and firmly, “I wish that you were free.”

The expression on Gene’s face was one that Al would never forget, as long as he lived. A mixture of awe and gratitude so bright it could have powered a city for a thousand years. Gene waved his hands and once more the room was filled with a kind of sparkly mist.

No one else noticed. Except, when the mist had cleared, Al’s mother let out a kind of shriek, pointed and said, “W-w-who on earth is that, Al, sweetie?” And then added: “Where were you hiding, my dear?”

Gene blinked, flushed, and said, “I-I-I—” and stopped, looking beseechingly at Al.

Al realised, a little gloomily, that in setting Gene free, he’d also robbed him of his power of invisibility. Which suggested he’d also robbed him of all his genie powers. And his home. He recalled that Gene had mentioned being born a mortal – was he now one again? This thought had a surprisingly invigorating effect on Al’s morale.

“This is my new boyfriend, Mum,” Al said, thinking on his feet.

The policeman on his left cleared his throat, but Al ignored him in favour of looking beseechingly at his mother.

“Boyfriend?” she asked hesitantly, looking between the two of them.

“Boyfriend?” Gene echoed, cheeks going pink.

“Yes, boyfriend. Sorry I didn’t tell you, Mum. Didn’t know how you’d react. He’s new to London, and – and – and he’s an orphan,” Al improvised. “So you’ll look after him, won’t you, while I’m in jail awaiting trial?”

His mum’s face softened, as Al had suspected it would. “Of course, dear. But jail? Oh dear!” Her face crumpled.

To Al’s surprise, Gen shot over to her and patted her arm soothingly, murmuring to her. She smiled, a little hesitantly, and nodded.

He’d created a monster, Al thought gloomily. But he had more important things to worry about right now. Like the policeman on his right, who was now yanking on his handcuffs.

“Touching though this is,” the senior policeman said from the doorway, “I have a job to do.” And he cautioned Al before leading him from the house.

“Don’t worry, Al, we’ll work something out!” Gene – now hand in hand with Al’s mum – called.

It was a nice thought, but Al couldn’t help but think it wasn’t a very realistic one. And he prepared himself for plenty of worry ahead of him.

 

***

“Hands on the table where I can see ’em!” called the prison warder.

Al had only been in jail for two days, and already he was quite certain that it wasn’t for him. So while he didn’t hold out much hope that Gene could fix this for him, it was still nice to see a friendly – fucking _gorgeous_ – face.

“You have to pinch your uncle’s ring,” Gene said, instead of a greeting, rather breathlessly.

Al blinked at him. “Shhhh!” he said. And then: “Don’t you think I’ve been doing enough of that recently? And look where it’s got me!”

Gene gave him a look of such warmth that Al felt his insides turn to goo. “You have to pinch it!” he repeated. “It’s a magic one. You can use it to get out.”

“Right,” Al said. “Right.”

Gene narrowed his eyes. “He’ll be visiting you. I told him you found the lamp.”

“What!” Al said. He said it too loudly; all eyes in the room – he wasn’t the only lag with a visitor – turned to them. “I mean – what!” he repeated, albeit in lower tones.

Gene rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t know you set me free, of course. The lamp’s useless now. But he wants it – so he’ll come to see you. All you need to do is shake his hand and make sure you snatch the ring and give it a quick rub.”

“ _Another_ genie?” Al asked wearily.

Gene nodded. “I could sense the magic a mile off. Think Michael’s used up his three wishes though, so it’s useless to him.” He paused. “At least, I hope so.”

“You . . . hope so?”

Gene nodded a bit too hard – as if it wasn’t just Al he was trying to convince. “Stands to reason, doesn’t it?” he said brightly. “He wouldn’t want the lamp if his ring still worked for him.”

“You’re so right,” Al said heavily. “That logic is perfect.”

Gene lowered his long, long lashes, and – there was no other word for it – pouted.

Al gave in. “OK! OK!” he said. “I’ll – er – borrow the bastard’s ring, I swear! Your plan is perfect. How could it go wrong?”

Gene snorted, dropping the seductive look. “Plenty can go wrong, idiot!” he said. “But thinking along those liens is hardly going to help matters, is it?” He sighed and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “If it comes to it, we’ll get you out of here the old-fashioned, legal way. But,” he turned a pleading look in Al’s direction, “I’d really like you out of here _sooner_ , if at all possible.”

Al’s heart started beating extra hard. “Oh?”

Gene smiled, tremulously. “So pinch that ring for me, if not for yourself, eh?”

Al swallowed hard – and then laughed. “You know just what to say to make me do whatever you want, you bastard.”

Gene grinned, like a cat that’s got the cream. “Mmm,” he said. Then he slid one hand forward and his fingertips brushed Al’s. “I look forward to testing that out further,” he said. And his grin turned dirty. “So hurry up and get out of here, right?”

Al nodded, a little dazed. “Right,” he said, wetting his lips. Gene was fully dressed this time – in Al’s clothes, he couldn’t help but notice – but he might as _well_ be half-naked, the effect he had on Al’s libido.

“Visiting time is over!” announced the guard, and all around Al, visitors rose and made their way to the exit. Gene, however, just sat there, smiling at Al, their fingers still touching.

“Time to leave, lad,” the guard said, touching Gene on the shoulder.

Gene sighed, and a cloud fell over his face. “See you _soon_ ,” he said meaningfully, and left – but before he exited the room he turned back, for a moment, and blew a kiss.

For a moment, to Al, it was as if the room was full of magic – sparkling and beautiful in the air.

 

***

Even if he hadn’t had Gene waiting for him on the outside, Al would have wanted to get the hell out of jail as soon as possible. Mainly, if he was honest with himself, because it was so _dull_. The routine was boring, and the food was even worse. Al spent nearly twenty hours a day alone in his cell with only a few beaten-up library books for entertainment, his time interspersed by the dubious benefit of time spent in the canteen and out in the exercise yard.

It was too much time for someone like Al, who was good at thinking, to spend by himself. By the time his appointment with Uncle Michael arrived, he’d already convinced himself that he was going down for twenty years, and – worse – that Gene only wanted him free from jail because he felt guilty. Al had used his last wish to set Gene free rather than to save his own skin; now Gene merely wanted to return the favour. While, Al’s traitorous brain added, working out what to do next. Al’s mother was a softie, he had to admit – and he suspected she was treating Gene like an honoured guest right now.

Despite these gloomy thoughts, however, Al decided he might as well try and carry out the foul deed of nicking the ring – it could hardly make things worse. So when Uncle Michael slid into the seat opposite him in the visiting room, under the watchful eye of the guard, Al prepared himself to win his uncle’s trust.

And by the time visiting was almost over, Al was almost impressed by his own sickening talents at appearing weak-willed and gullible. Uncle Michael was practically cackling with maniacal glee as Al revealed where the lamp was and pitifully repeated: “You will do your best now to get me free, won’t you?”

“Of course, my child, of course,” Michael lied, affably, and stroked his pointy beard.

“Time’s up,” the guard called.

It was now or never; Uncle Michael was already rising, ready to leave. Al stuck out his hand, and Uncle Michael, evidently caught up in thoughts of glory, automatically stuck out his own.

Al grabbed, shook – and when he slid his hand away, slid the ring with it.

“What!” exclaimed Uncle Michael, his expression turning thunderous. Then he realised what had happened. “Thief!” he yelled. “Thief!”

 _Fuck_ , Al thought, rubbing at the ring. To his relief, a mist began to pour forth from the thing, and he slipped it on his finger to stabilise it as it wobbled about. The guard was already running over in alarm – seemingly in slow motion – as a very tiny man popped forth from the mist. He was floating, legs crossed, and he was round – as round as a rubber ball, practically. He, too, was covered in gold jewellery, but unlike Gene he was clad from neck to toe in floaty fabric.

“What can I do you for?” the genie asked, and fiddled with his elaborate moustache. “Three wishes, yeah?”

Uncle Michael clearly couldn’t see the genie – but, just as clearly, he knew what was happening. He placed a hand over Al’s mouth and attempted to muffle him to death.

“I wish that Uncle Michael was in prison for this crime, rather than me!” Al tried. It came out as an indistinct mumble.

“You what?” the genie said. “Speak up!”

Al rolled his eyes, bit his uncle’s hand – hard – and when Uncle Michael snatched his hand away, yelling, he repeated his wish.

Everything seemed to happen at once. The genie snapped his fingers; the guard reached Al; Uncle Michael tried to punch Al in the head, and succeeded; and the world twanged, like a rubber band under pressure.

When Al blinked, the world had changed – just a little. Instead of bearing down on _him_ , the guard was after his uncle. Al’s head was still ringing though, after his uncle’s hefty punch. And now someone was talking to him – another prison official, who was being very apologetic.

“I’ll just pop off again, yah?” the tiny, rotund genie said, and vanished – back, presumably, into the ring.

“I’m fine,” Al interrupted the official, who was in full flow. “I won’t make a complaint. I just want to get home.”

“Of course, of course,” the official oiled. “Your friend is waiting for you outside.”

My . . . friend? Al thought, feeling mentally negligible for a moment. Then the fug cleared – Gene! Gene, who, now he had helped Al get free, would be on his way, no doubt.

Al’s heart sank. It sank even more when he left the building, to see Gene standing outside. He was _so_ beautiful; too beautiful for someone like me, Al thought gloomily.

Gene bounded over, and then seemed to pause mid-bounce. He frowned. “What?” he asked, a little crossly. “It worked, didn’t it? Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m _not_ mad at you,” Al said, feeling mad at him. It wasn’t fair!

“You _are_ ,” Gene said.

“Am not!”

“Are _too_!”

“Am _not_!”

Gene paused, frowned even harder, and folded his arms. “This is like something from a second-rate pantomime,” he muttered.

“Well, it’s not _my_ fault!” Al said hotly. He felt hot behind the eyes too.

Gene unfolded his arms and took a wary step towards him.

“Why don’t you just say goodbye and get on with it!” Al flared.

A matching hurt flared in Gene’s eyes, and he faltered. “You want rid of me?” he asked faintly.

Al stared at him. “Of course not!” he said, just a touch too loudly. “But why would you want to stick around?” He scowled. “Unless you want something from me,” he added. And remembered the ring. He slid it off his finger. “It’s this you want, right? You can have the fucking thing!” He held it out, his eyes stinging.

Gene’s expression slid from hurt incredulity to something very, very kind. He took another step forward, and wrapped Al’s hand around the ring. “Do you know how many ‘masters’ I had while trapped in that lamp?” he asked.

Al swallowed. “No?”

Gene’s eyes were very, very warm. “Countless,” he murmured. He reached over and placed a palm on Al’s left upper arm. Al could feel Gene’s body heat, even through the fabric of his shirt.

“And do you know how many even considered setting me free?” he asked.

“No,” Al mumbled.

Gene reached up to grasp Al with his other hand, in a kind of possessive hug. “None,” Gene said firmly.

“None?” Al repeated. It didn’t seem credible.

“None. You were the first. The only.”

“So you’re grateful,” Al muttered, looking at the ground. “I don’t _want_ your gratitude.”

Gene let go with one hand, to tilt Al’s chin up. “What _do_ you want?”

Al felt himself blush. He said nothing.

“Because if you want my heart,” Gene said steadily, “you have that too. You had it the moment I set eyes on you.”

Al gulped. It didn’t seem believable. “Really?” he managed.

Gene smiled. “Really.” Then he frowned a bit. “You do . . . want it, don’t you?” he asked, his self-confidence evidently faltering. “I do have a tendency to presume,” he said apologetically, pushing a hand through his hair and looking embarrassed. “Comes with being royalty, I guess.”

“ _Royalty_?” Al repeated.

Gene nodded and had the grace to continue to look embarrassed. “Didn’t I say? I was born a crown prince. Though that was a while ago . . .” His frown deepened, and he looked a bit like a lost puppy. “So, _don’t_ you want me?”

Al took a deep breath, leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Gene’s mouth, to show him without words – because he couldn’t think of any that were appropriate right that moment – just how much he did want him.

Gene gasped and pulled him close, as if he was never planning on letting him go, and it was some minutes before they came up for air, panting and shaking.

“You _do_ want me,” Gene said with some satisfaction.

“Maybe just a little bit,” Al said, wrinkling his nose, and grinned when Gene whacked him.

They walked all the way back to Al’s house – over five miles – stopping every now and then to kiss. It took them hours.

Once outside the house, they stopped, and Gene took Al by the arm. “What will you use your remaining wishes on?” he asked tentatively, and then screwed up his face as if he expected he wouldn’t like the answer.

Al smiled, rubbed the ring, and used a wish to free the genie. It was over, practically before Gene could blink.

“But – you didn’t want to use another wish?” Gene asked, a smile of amazement spreading itself across his face.

“Nope,” Al said, and he took Gene’s hand as they started walking again towards the front door. “Now I have you, I have everything I could ever wish for.”

Al looked over at Gene, a little shyly, and to his relief the look of sheer joy on Gene’s face told him that Gene felt exactly the same.


End file.
